Bobby's Requiem
by starglow71
Summary: This is my Funeral Pyre for Bobby Singer. He will be missed. Warning: Intense emotions will be provoked, some language. The boys are grieving, so yeah, there will be bad language, I even used some myself watching it. I stood by this Pyre and mourned, too.


The wood is arranged and oiled. The match sits unlit in Dean's hand. Tears course from green and hazel eyes.

They stare.

The wrapped body sits on the stilted platform over the wood. The match is still unlit.

They stare.

The body is salted and ready, Tears still course from the green and hazel eyes.

They stare.

Dean approaches but cannot do it. Sam follows but cannot either. So they do it together,with eyes closed and hearts breaking. The number still sits on the hand, it is copied to paper already, burned into memory along with that sound, the sound of monitors flatlining, that long drawn out ringing that splits their brain, and their hearts in ways that losing Dad never had. In ways that losing all but Sam, ever had.

They stare.

They watch the fire burn to the sky, taking Bobby with them. The green and hazel eyes cry. The numbers glare obviously from their flesh.

They stare.

It is cold now, they aren't wearing jackets. Two shirts are not warm enough. The charred house and wrecked yard are silent. Empty, like the body on the pyre.

They stare.

Silent screams and angry curses fill their heads but are unspoken. Grief starts with one cell in Sam and eventually takes over all of them, until it had overwhelms Dean's last cell, like a dark and horrible river they cannot fathom but will forever feel flowing through them, drowning them, ripping them apart so it can put them together, then pull them back together so it can kill them inside again. Grief does that, the bone carving, rip out your fucking heart and feed it to you so you can taste its bitter flavor over an over again, until the day you're an empty shell burning up on pyre too. Like Bobby.

They do not move. they do not blink. They break and shatter but show no cracks.

They stare.

They pick up the ashes and bury them with Karen, the way he wanted them,too. They would put his cap in with him, but they burned that with him, where it belonged. They sit in his van, never theirs, and feel so empty and lost, so angry and sad. Walking dead, maybe this is how what they kill feels like. Maybe they could do that sci fi thing and see themselves sitting there and their other selves,the Hunter ones, hell, even the Leviathan ones, approach and do what Hunters do. They kill the Walking dead. They stare out the windows and cry, no one approaches, no sci fi clones, no Leviathan doubles. They are still here…and he isn't.

They stare.

They're digging in his bag and they find it. A paper that leaves them broken…again. Such big words, such hard to understand phrases…not all of them but most of them. His Will. He's left them the yard…but not the man himself. They are tempted to burn it, Deed and all, signed over to them already, probably has been for years. They don't want it…but still shove it to the bottom of Sam's duffel. He wanted them to have this, so they would abide it. His final wish, his dying wish. Him dying. Bobby dead.

They break and shatter but this time they crack and fall to pieces, little Bobby shaped pieces.

They hurt but no one holds them but each other. They cry but no one cares, except each other. People have always looked at them weird and judgementally for being too close, for being so twisted together neither knows where one begins and the other ends. Where are those people? Are they comforting the two broken men? Are they holding them while they cry? Are they offering soothing touches and trying to ease their pain?

No. It's just them. It's always been just them.

Lisa saw it and ran. Jessica would have ran eventually, Sam knew this deep down. Their world was narrow. No room but for each other, but somehow Bobby had found his way in. He got in! Their world had no longer been just Sam and Dean but had become Sam, Dean, and Bobby. Father and his sons. Sons with their loving but cranky Father.

Now it was just them again. Their World shrinking again to just fitting them two. Retracting painfully, with the outline of the missing soul there now.

They know they need to start the van. They know its time to go and so as Bobby said, keep fighting, stop the Leviathan, and Kill that bastard Dick. Use the numbers they have no idea what they mean and right now, don't really care to. They wish for clean unwritten on hands and a cranky smiling red haired man telling them what to do. They wish they hadn't heard the soft but loving, 'Idjit' nor the long drawn out ringing they would forever equate with their deepest pains. They wish it had been them, one or both of them, they don't have a preference. As long as it wasn't Bobby. Sam thinks it should be him, Both of the others have had turns dying or almost dying in hospital beds, it's his turn, right? He wishes Gabriel was here, he could make that happen for them. He's not. He's dead, too. Everyone they ever loved is dead, but each other.

They're all that's left. When one goes, the other will be alone.

No crossroad deal for Bobby. No angel bringing him to them. No one pulling him out of wherever he is and bringing him to their door, for hugs and reunion.

They are alone.

They start the van and head out. Not knowing where to go. Just keeping moving and doing as Bobby told them to, his last order. Not wanting to but doing it anyway. They always tried to do as the old man said, always would. They had promised to keep going. No matter what it took, those boys were Winchesters and Winchesters kept their promises.

But for now, they feel like a compass that has been demagnetized. No North, No South, No East, No West. Just spinning, spinning so fast, with no defining direction to point to. Spinning and not stopping. Moving on, as promised, but spinning.

They watch the road unspool before them with broken hearts and lonely thoughts.

And they stare.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

This is dedicated to Bobby Singer, the greatest Dad ever to our boys; their true father in every sense of the word. He loved them and they loved him.

We'll miss you, Bobby.

This is my Funeral Pyre to you, old man.

Probably messed up building it, like the Idjit I am.

Enjoy your Heaven, man.

And drink a toast at Ash's tavern with the others for me, okay?

xxxxxxxxxx

_**Bobby Singer, Beloved Old Coot, Loving Husband, Terrific Friend and Father.**_

_**R.I.P. September 2, 2011.**_


End file.
